Work Text:
"Não sou nem quero ser o seu dono
É que um carinho às vezes cai bem
Eu tenho meus desejos e planos secretos
Só abro pra você mais ninguém"
Rough translation (by me):
"I am not and don't want to be your owner
It's just that sometimes (physical) affection is good for me
I have my secret desires and plans
Which I tell to you and no one else"
*
Some mornings, bright and early, Nicolas would catch Tobio alone in a corner of the locker room, pinch his cheeks and say: "I'm gonna love you to death," or "I'll bite you to the bone until there's nothing left of you," or "your nose is so cute, Tobio, I want to eat it," and for a while, Tobio didn't know what to say back. It wasn't the first time in his life he had been met with an over-the-top person whose actions made no sense, and he did what he knew to do, which was frown, freeze, think, frown deeper, and nod.
Nicolas wasn't usually over the top, though. Not like Hinata, or Bokuto-san. He had this permanent placid expression, eyelids always relaxed, a lazy smile that never hurried to spread over his cheeks, though it got there in the end. He would dance during his warm-ups if he had his headphones in, and his right hand would drum side-to-side on his thigh whenever he had a song stuck in his head. He would always tell everyone not to rush their meals, and bragged often about getting nine hours of sleep. Nicolas Romero had six different pairs of flip-flops.
The only instance of him not being the picture of relaxation was when it came to personal hygiene. He always came in to training having showered, and showered again with his teammates before going home. He always brushed his teeth after lunch, and everyone started to follow suit after watching him do it.
On away games, Nicolas would appear in the hotel lobby before bed very shiny from his mom's homemade night cream she shipped out to him from Brazil. He always smelled incredible, even after training. At seven p.m., when they were all panting and sweaty, Nicolas' deodorant smelled even stronger, mixed with his regular manly smell, and Tobio always had to leave; he had to hide somewhere, overwhelmed and embarrassed and suffocating and red all over.
And even then, Nicolas didn't seem crazy like Tobio's other friends. Only when it came to Tobio.
Sometimes Nicolas would look at him and squeeze his fists, bite his lower lip and scrunch his face like he'd tasted something sour. Tobio would ask him if there was something on his face, and Nicolas would say: "Fofura. You have cute on your face, Tobio. So much cute."
They weren't even dating yet. Tobio had wanted to kick him for saying that, just because it made him feel ill, but he didn't. He huffed and walked away. Then Nicolas came to him after practice to ask if everything was okay between them, and Tobio said: "Romero-san, you make no sense."
Nicolas laughed and asked him out. Tobio said yes. That's when the cheek pinching started.
"I want to put you in a little cup, shake you and put you in my pocket, Tobio."
"Don't be mean," he said, struggling to speak as Nicolas pushed his cheeks together. He was gentle, but still.
"I'm not mean, I just squeeze you."
"Yes, you are squeezing me."
"Squeeze you more, though."
"I would die."
"No, I would be nice-nice. Not rough at all." With his cheeks pressed together like this, Tobio knew he looked like a fish. Nicolas kissed his puffy lips. "So cute, you're gonna kill me. Such cute new haircut."
"Nico," he whined. He was far from innocent, though, because Nicolas always got even more affectionate when he whined. "People are gonna walk in and see us. They'll see my red face."
"So much cute face, though," he smiled. "Such cute, oh, Tobio."
"Shut up," Tobio whispered with a smile he knew to be crooked and clumsy. He could hear heavy steps approaching the locker room, and surely so could Nico, so he let him go. Tobio turned his back to him, smiling to himself, and he knew Nico was doing the same thing.